Claude 5.5 協助打造復古地城遊戲，並主持《The Bell of Greystone》冒險

Role-Playing Games

I must confess, when I was young, I got completely hooked on role-playing games. But I mean the classic tabletop RPGs, sitting around a table with friends and a Dungeon Master. Something that no computer RPG has ever managed to recreate.

No matter how beautifully crafted the world or how exciting the story, something essential was always missing: the freedom of playing a character you truly become, fighting alongside your friends, and knowing that almost anything is possible. Not just endless hacking, slashing, and mountains of magic spells.

I gained experience not only as a player but also as a Dungeon Master, creating adventures and building worlds. Skills that turned out to be surprisingly useful many times later in my life, and still are.

Lands of Lore

Of course, I also spent plenty of time playing computer games. Mostly RPGs, naturally.

One of my all-time favorites among the early ones was Lands of Lore. Even today, I keep coming back to the memory of how simple it was, yet somehow it had that special quality you usually find in a masterpiece.

I remember spending ages searching those almost pixelated walls for hidden switches. Or figuring out that the only way to cross the swamp was to freeze it.

And there was something charming about its simplicity. That pre-3D world where you could only turn in 90-degree steps.

Actually, looking back, the whole game was built around a true KISS philosophy.

Exploring Free Claude 5.5 Led to a Retro Dungeon Builder

It all started with a casual conversation. We even talked about Rogmor, my own RPG project that I started long before the AI era and kept returning to, improving and reshaping it from time to time.

Anyway, Claude outlined how it would build a small Lands of Lore-style dungeon crawler. That got me curious, so we went ahead and created the first working version.

And here's the funny part: all this happened while I was lying in bed, continuing the conversation on my mobile phone. And the game immediately ran on that same phone!

This is exactly what I meant by Scary Creativity in Singularity News :: 0001.

But the really interesting idea went beyond the game itself.

A first-person Dungeon Master mode, where the DM can literally dig out the adventure from a first-person perspective, placing monsters, traps, doors, and NPCs along the way.

Then I added a Famulus, a little assistant who helps with the digging and even demonstrates how to dig.

TL;DR

And then came an unexpected twist.

My original plan was to let AI handle most of the world-building. Not just generating the labyrinth, but also controlling the NPCs.

After discussing how we would maintain a consistent game state, I figured it was time to run a little test before vibe-coding the project any further.

And suddenly, I found myself inside a role-playing adventure.

Almost like the classic tabletop RPGs I used to play. Except this time there was only one Dungeon Master, Claude, and only one player: me.

I should mention an earlier article of mine, LLM RPG Test 2026. As with every such setup, the usual limitations were still there. But I have to say, Claude 5.5 performed exceptionally well.

It managed to maintain the tension throughout the entire adventure, and at the very end, it presented me with such an ironic situation that I genuinely hadn't expected it.

Personally, I especially enjoyed finally testing something I've been talking about for a long time.

One thing that has always bothered me in movies and novels is that characters who are supposed to have faith rarely solve their problems by actually relying on the power of that faith.

This time, I finally had the chance to explore that possibility myself.

So, after this rather long introduction, here comes the part that I suspect nobody will actually read.

Because it's more than 80,000 characters long, which is already beyond the length of a typical short story.

Just one more little detail before we dive in.

This adventure also gives some additional insight into the mental map line in my Single Line CV article. Or at least it offers another, more personal perspective on what I meant by it.

The Bell of Greystone

Arrival

You reach Greystone at dusk, on the cobbled square of a mountain village. A few people stand around the well, talking quietly. In the chapel tower hangs a great bell, but its rope is cut and swings loose. The sign of the nearby inn, a cuckoo, creaks in the wind, and warm light spills from the inn's windows. On the far side of the square a stocky, stern-eyed man in uniform stands watching you.

Your palm tingles, as if from the cold, but it isn't cold. It is a strange feeling that wasn't there during the journey.

Around the square you can see the well, a notice board, the inn, the chapel, in the distance the smoke of a smithy, and the road leading up toward the mountain.

Player: I look over the notice board.

The notice board

The board is crowded with papers of different ages, pinned over one another.

• A mayoral proclamation with a fresh seal: the Deepwell mine is closed, approaching its gate is forbidden, and breaking the rule is punishable by fine. Signed: Aldric Voss, Mayor.
• A ruling by the captain of the guard: after sunset villagers should not walk alone, and anyone who has seen anything is asked to report to Captain Hartley.
• A handwritten note in pencil, in shaky letters: "I am looking for my son Paul. He has not come home from the mine for three days. If anyone knows anything about him, please tell the smithy. – Barbara." Below it, a smaller slip: "Gregory, if you see this, come home. – D."
• A chapel notice: the bell has been silent for three weeks, the faithful can help with repairs through donations, and Father Brann holds Mass at night as well.

Because you look carefully, you notice something else. At the bottom, under the other papers, is an ancient, yellowed poster. It once announced the "bell festival", and at the end there is a signature: Ilse the Elder, bellringer. Next to the name is a stamp: a bell with a hand inside it. When you look at it, your palm tingles again, stronger than before.

The uniformed man on the other side of the square sees that you have been staring at the board for a long time and slowly starts walking toward you.

Player: I start talking to him.

Captain Hartley

The uniformed man stops in front of you and rests his hand on his belt, not threateningly, more out of habit. He is in his forties, lean, with short hair graying at the temples.

"I am Captain Hartley, commander of the village guard," he says dryly. "You are a stranger, and you have been studying the notice board for ten minutes as if it were a book. That is not a crime in itself, but lately every stranger is interesting to us. Who are you, and what brings you here?"

His voice is official, but his eyes are tired. He seems not to have slept properly in a long time.

As he speaks, he glances for a moment toward the old poster at the bottom of the board, then quickly back at you, as if he doesn't want you to notice.

Player: I'm a traveler, and I like to know what is going on in the area. Maybe I could help look for the missing boy.

Hartley narrows his eyes and looks you over as if weighing you on a scale.

"Help?" he repeats. "A rare offer these days. Mostly people run away from here." He is silent for a moment, then continues more quietly. "Three miners vanished three weeks ago. Gregory, Paul, and a boy called Emery. All of them headed toward Deepwell, and none came back. Since then the mayor has had the mine closed, and nobody may go near the gate. Not even my men."

At the last sentence his jaw tightens a little, but he says no more.

"The boy's mother, Barbara, works in the smithy. She would surely be grateful to anyone who cares about this. You may also hear something at the inn if you keep your ears open. But I warn you of one thing: don't wander at night alone, and don't go near the mine. If you find anything, anything at all that points to the missing men, bring it to me. Not to the mayor, to me." He says this last sentence a shade quieter.

Then, in an official voice, he adds:

"You haven't told me your name yet."

Player: My name is Erwin Greenthorn.

Hartley takes out a worn notebook and writes down your name, repeating it softly: "Erwin Greenthorn." He looks up. "It doesn't sound familiar, but the village is old, and names travel."

He closes the notebook and nods.

"Very well, Erwin. If you need a room for the night, the Cuckoo Inn is on the other side of the square. Barlow is an honest man, though he talks a lot. If you go to Barbara, the smithy is at the end of the square, on the road toward the mountain." He hesitates for a moment, then adds: "That old poster you were looking at on the board is about the bell festival. It isn't current anymore." He says it as if expecting a question, or as if watching how you will react.

Then he adjusts his belt, and the quiet of the square's evening settles around you. The people by the well have stopped whispering and are now watching you, the new face. Far off, from the direction of the mountain, you hear a short, dull rumble that is nothing like a ringing, and then it fades.

Player: Is the village regularly attacked from the north, and did the rope get cut in one of those attacks? What happened?

Hartley raises an eyebrow and looks at you almost in astonishment.

"Attack? From the north?" His voice is dry, but there is a little surprise in it. "Nothing comes from there but the mountain and the snow. At this time of year snow closes the pass, and the last band of robbers was chased off in my grandfather's day. Nobody has attacked us in three weeks, that's certain."

He thinks for a moment, then nods toward the chapel tower.

"The rope wasn't torn. Mira, the bellringer girl, found it on the ground in the morning, and the end was cleanly cut, as if done with a knife. It happened at night, because in the evening the bell still rang, and by morning it was mute. I saw nothing, heard nothing, and neither did my men." He rubs his chin. "Father Brann knows more about the bell than I do. But if you ask me, this was not the work of an enemy. Whoever did it knew the tower and knew when nobody was watching."

He puts the weight of the emphasis on the end of the sentence, but doesn't explain what he means.

Player: Thank you, Captain Hartley! With that, I'll go and visit Barbara.

Hartley nods but says nothing more, only follows you with his eyes until you disappear around the corner of the square.

The paving of the road toward the mountain is uneven here, and there is barely any light behind the walls. In front of the smithy a ruddy glow pulses in the open door, and the blows of a hammer carry from afar. As you come closer, you notice that the strikes are uneven: one hard blow, then a longer pause, as if the hand were working rather than thinking.

In the smithy a broad-shouldered woman of about fifty stands at the anvil, her hair tied under a kerchief, old burn scars on her forearms. She is trying to straighten a long, damaged iron rod, but you can see her thoughts are elsewhere. When she hears your footsteps, she doesn't look up at once.

"Closed," she says, staring at the iron. "Come in the morning if you need horseshoes."

Then she glances at you, and her hand stops. Her gaze runs over you, stops on your palm, and for a moment narrows, but she says nothing about it.

"You're not from the village," she says at last. "What do you want?"

Player: I'm Erwin Greenthorn, and I heard your son has gone missing, and others too, from the mine. I'm looking for a place to stay, and in exchange I'll investigate the disappearances.

Barbara puts down the hammer and wipes her hands on her apron. She looks at you for a long time, as if measuring how many promises like this she has heard.

"You'll investigate the disappearances," she repeats dryly. "For three weeks everybody has been 'looking into' it. Hartley, the priest, even the mayor. Then another proclamation comes, and my son is still not home." She doesn't raise her voice, but her words are sharp. "What do you get out of it? A room? That's hardly payment for this kind of work."

She falls silent, and her eyes drift to your palm again. She quickly looks away.

"Paul is in his nineteenth winter. A good-handed boy, better than I was at his age. In the last weeks he did a lot of special work, orders from the mayor's men, mining tools, ironwork." She pauses a little. "The evening he left, he said he still had to take something somewhere. I haven't seen him since."

Next to the anvil stands a cart with a broken wheel, two of its spokes cracked, the iron tire lying on the ground.

"Look," she says curtly. "I have no hands to spare for all this work now. If you can hold iron and blow the fire, the attic room is yours for the night, and in the meantime perhaps I'll tell you something more. You don't have to. But help is help."

Player: Fine, let it be so. But then I'll also ask the mayor and the priest what they've achieved in this damned search. Forgive me, since I'm a stranger, but I'm a practical man, and when I say I'll look into it, I mean it.

Something almost like a smile appears at the corner of Barbara's mouth for the first time.

"Practical," she says. "That's better than fine speeches. Go and ask them. But Voss is a polite man, and the polite ones are the hardest. And with the priest, don't watch the words; watch what he doesn't say."

Then she nods toward the cart.

You go over and get to work. You replace the spokes, forge the cracked one anew, heat the tire, and draw it tight around the wood. The heat makes your back sweat, but Barbara is skilled, and the work goes quickly. Barbara says not a word the whole time, only occasionally watches from the side, and once gently corrects how you hold the tongs. When the cart finally stands straight, she spins the wheel, and it turns smoothly, silently.

She wipes her hands on her apron and is quiet for a while.

"It's good," she says at last. "I'll talk, as I promised." She lowers her voice. "In Paul's last week he wasn't only making tools. The mayor ordered a big iron lock for the mine gate, a heavy, two-key piece. Paul worked two days on it, and he said he found it odd. At that time the gate was still open, the miners were working. Nobody had fitted the lock yet, but after the disappearances the mine was closed, as if the mayor had known it all in advance." She looks you in the eye. "Maybe it's nothing. Maybe he's the kind of man who plans ahead. But to me it's strange anyway."

The smell of food drifts from the back room, where someone has lit a fire. Barbara nods toward the attic.

"The room is yours. In the morning there will be bread and soup, if you behave."

Player: I go into the chapel, introduce myself to the priest, and ask him about the mine.

The chapel

The chapel door opens with a creak. Inside it is cold, smelling of wax and damp stone. A few candles burn before the altar, and three or four old people sit silently in the pews, praying under their breath. The silence from the tower is different from the stillness of a church: heavy, as if something were missing from it. Your palm tingles again, stronger than on the square.

A thin girl of sixteen or seventeen is sweeping in the side aisle, her hair tangled, her fingers inky. When she sees you, she stops and quickly lowers her head. Beside the altar, a gray-haired, stooped man in priestly robes is straightening the candles. He is around sixty, his movements slow and careful. He hears your steps, turns, and looks at you kindly, but wearily.

"Welcome, my son," he says softly. "We rarely see a stranger at this hour. I am Father Brann. Can I help you with something, or are you only seeking the quiet?"

Player: I'm here because of the men missing from the mine. And I would also ask your blessing for the search.

Father Brann looks at you for a long, almost measured moment, then rests his hand on the altar rail.

"The miners..." he sighs. "Three young men, and all three were baptized in this chapel. Weeks ago they still sat at Sunday Mass, and now..." He doesn't finish. "I prayed for them every evening, but in vain. I asked the mayor to let me say a Mass at the mine gate, in case it would help, but he wouldn't allow it. The mine is closed, he said, 'for safety reasons.' I do not argue with him; that is his business, not mine." He adds more quietly: "Meanwhile the village sleeps badly. Many people see the same dream at night, something calling from deep below. I don't tell the children."

He raises his hand and places his fingers on your forehead. The gesture is quick and warm.

"May God accompany you on your way, my son, and watch over you while you walk in the dark." Then he looks away toward the tower. "You know, what really weighs on me is not even the mine. Three weeks ago the bell fell silent, and that was the heartbeat of this village. The rope was cut, but worse, they took the clapper too, the bell's tongue. Without it the bell is only a big, mute piece of iron. Whoever did this knew exactly what he was taking."

The sweeping girl in the background stops and clings to the broom handle. Brann notices you rubbing your palm, and for a moment his gaze strays to your fingers, but he says nothing.

Player: On the way out I speak to the sweeping girl and ask her about the mayor.

Slowly, so as not to frighten her, you turn toward the sweeping girl between the pews. Mira, if you heard Father Brann correctly from beside the candles, snatches up her head and grips the broom handle as if it would save her. Her glance flashes over you, toward the priest at the altar, then back.

"I'm only the bellringer's helper," she whispers. "Mira. I don't know much about the mayor, sir. I'm in the tower and the chapel, not at the town hall." Her voice is quick and soft, the words running into each other. "Lord Voss often comes to the chapel; after Mass he usually talks with the Father, and he is always polite. He donates, too." For a moment she falls silent, turning the end of the broom. "Only these last weeks he hasn't come. Even though since the bell he should come more."

Father Brann has his back turned at the altar, but the girl keeps looking back and forth. When she turns to you again, her eyes widen as if she wanted to tell you something, then she presses her lips together.

"Not... not here," she whispers, barely audible. "In the morning, when I'm by the well, because I fetch water. Then I could..." The sentence is left unfinished. In a louder voice, as if speaking only of church order: "The exit is on the left, sir."

You can see she knows something, and fears it. Father Brann has put down the candlestick in the background and starts toward the door.

Player: I go to the mayor and ask him what danger the mine holds and what came of the search.

The mayor

The mayor's house stands on the north side of the square, next to the chapel: two storeys, a carved gate, light curtains in the windows. A servant answers your knock and silently leads you into a heated study. Maps on the walls, orderly papers on the desk, a silver candlestick in the corner. Behind the desk, an elegant man in his fifties, dressed in blue, rises and offers his hand.

"Aldric Voss, mayor of the village. Welcome, Mr. Greenthorn." His voice is courteous and smooth, his smile precisely measured. "News travels fast here. A moment ago, if the smell doesn't deceive me, you were at the smithy, and now you come from the chapel. A useful stranger, I see."

He seats you and leans on the edge of the desk.

"You ask what dangers the mine holds. The short answer: serious ones. Deepwell is old, its passages are built on medieval workings, and below the second level the ground has long been unreliable. Master Corvin, my adviser, who understands such things, examined it two weeks ago and judged it prone to collapse and full of poisonous gases. That is why I closed it." He pauses briefly. "As for the missing young men, we searched the first-level passages but found no trace of them. They probably went deeper, or left the village. Sadly, in the first case there is not much hope."

He leans back and touches his fingertips together.

"I appreciate your willingness to help, but believe me, the best service you can render is to stay away. It is dangerous here, and I wouldn't want a well-meaning stranger to come to harm." With a delicate movement, he sets a silver purse on the desk. "Ten gold coins, for your trouble. The Cuckoo Inn will be on me until tomorrow morning, and if you wish to travel on, I'll pay for the carter too. Let's say it is the village's gratitude."

His smile doesn't flicker. He waits for your answer.

Player: Thank you for your generosity, but the smithy suits me fine, those fancy inns are not to my taste. I'll stay a few days anyway, because three friends of mine are on their way here and we agreed to meet here. (nothing of the sort was agreed)

Voss's smile does not change for a moment, but something calculating enters his eyes. He doesn't take the purse back; he leaves it on the desk.

"The smithy, I see." His voice stays smoothly pleasant. "Barbara is a good woman, though she has hard days now, and grief can be a poor adviser." He leans back. "Three friends, you say. Interesting. Three people rarely come here at once, especially now that the pass is closing. Do I know them? Where do they come from, and when do you expect them?"

The question sounds casual, as though prompted only by hospitality, but the fingers of his right hand tap rhythmically on the desk.

"I ask because the village is in a difficult time and I would like to know who passes through. Let's say it's a mayor's duty. If armed men or professional investigators arrive, it's good if they notify us beforehand, so my guards don't take them for enemies." His smile is a little wider now. "The money stays on the desk. If you change your mind, or your friends arrive and the Cuckoo seems better after all, Barlow knows he should put everything on my account. My offer doesn't expire."

Meanwhile, beside the door, where you hadn't looked until now, a broad-shouldered man in a leather vest leans against the wall. He listens, a short sword at his waist. When you notice him, he doesn't even glance at you, only watches the mayor, as if waiting for a signal.

Player: I take the gold, and while doing so I say that they are Little Tegg, Helga of the Collar, and Rodgo the wizard. Though if you ask me he can't do magic, but he knows his wines.

Voss falls silent for a moment, then quietly, sincerely begins to laugh.

"A wizard who can't do magic but knows his wines." He shakes his head. "That is the best description I've heard lately. Little Tegg, Helga of the Collar, and Rodgo. I'll remember."

He pushes the purse on the desk toward your hand and watches you tuck it away. His smile is unchanged, but his eyes remain calculating. Along with the names, the word "wizard" particularly catches his attention.

"You know, Master Corvin, my adviser, likes to talk with people of that profession. Someone who understands magic, even if only in theory, rarely comes here." He is silent a moment. "When Mr. Rodgo arrives, please bring him to me. Over a glass of wine they would get on well. Or, if you like, I can send word to the guards posted at the pass, so your three friends aren't held up, and so that they notify me when they come through."

Beside the doorpost, Rask doesn't move, but the shoulder leaning on the doorframe tightens a little under the leather vest. Voss doesn't look toward him, only the forefinger of his right hand taps once on the desk.

"One more thing I'll ask, just for the sake of order." His voice is light. "By which road are you expecting them? From the pass, from the western valley, or perhaps from the south, along the river?"

Player: Oh, if only I knew; we weren't that specific when we parted.

Voss watches your face in silence for a little while, then his smile turns warm again, almost understanding.

"Well, yes, wanderers meet like that, roughly, but at least the destination is shared." He stands, signaling that the questioning is over. "Very well, Mr. Greenthorn. If you hear news of them, or they need anything, you know where to find me. My door is open, and my offer stands."

He gestures to the door, where the servant is already standing. As you step out, Voss adds, his back turned, as if just adjusting his clothes:

"Take care in the dark. Rask will see you to the square. Nights in Greystone are not safe for strangers."

The man in the leather vest sets off beside you without a word. He doesn't speak, doesn't look at you, just walks one step behind you on the paving. At the edge of the square he stops and stays there when you go on. When you look back, he is still standing there with his arms crossed, and he is not looking toward the mayor's house but at you.

The moon is already high, and no one is at the well. In the smithy window a pale light still burns, and from the direction of the Cuckoo Inn come singing and giggling.

Player: I rest in the smithy and sort out my equipment. I ask Barbara whether Voss has been acting strangely lately. The next morning I happen to wander around the well.

A night at the smithy

A narrow staircase at the back of the smithy leads to the attic. The room is small but clean: a straw mattress, a blanket, and a window facing the mountain. You unpack your belongings, check your equipment, and put away the ten gold coins. Below, you can hear Barbara tending the kitchen fire.

You go downstairs and ask whether Voss has been acting strangely. Barbara stares into the embers for a while.

“Strangely?” she says at last. “Voss never acts strangely. That's the trouble with him. Always the same: polite, calm.” She stirs the fire. “But some things have changed. He used to come here himself to place orders, and he haggled like everyone else. These past few weeks, he's sent Rask, his bodyguard. Pays in advance, never haggles. The two-key lock was like that too. The price wasn't even a question.” She pauses. “I've also seen him going to the mine with his wizard, Corvin, since spring. Paul once mentioned that the master had asked how long the chisels were, for cutting a deeper passage. I thought nothing of it then.”

She glances at your palm, then meets your eyes, but says no more.

“Sleep. Morning will be harder.”

Nothing happens during the night, though once you think you see a dark figure at the edge of the square through your window. Then it disappears. In the morning you have bread and soup before casually wandering over to the well.

Mira's testimony

Few people are out yet. Soon Mira appears with two buckets, her hair as tangled as ever. She lowers a bucket into the well and speaks softly without looking at you.

“Good morning, sir. No one's watching now. Father's preparing for Mass.” Her voice trembles. “I… I don't know if I should really tell you.”

Player: The truth cannot be kept hidden!

Mira tightens her grip on the rope and slowly turns toward you, as though the words are difficult to force out.

“The truth…” she repeats quietly. “Father Brann says that too. But he didn't see what I saw.” She looks around the square before continuing. “Three weeks ago, that night, I was sleeping in the tower. I'd been stitching the replacement bell rope. I heard a noise on the stairs, but I was afraid to go down. I hid behind the bell.” Her voice thins. “A broad-shouldered man came up, wearing a leather vest, a sword at his side. It was Rask, the mayor's man. I'm certain. He cut the rope with a single stroke, then reached under the bell and removed the clapper, its tongue. He wrapped it in a canvas sack and left. He said nothing. He wasn't even in a hurry.”

She stops and leans against the well.

“In the morning there was damp gray dust in the footprints on the stairs. It smelled like the mine. That's all I know. I don't know where he took it.” She lowers her head. “I didn't tell Father Brann because Rask was sitting in church that Sunday too, and if he found out I'd seen…” She leaves the sentence unfinished.

Before hauling up her bucket, she looks you directly in the eye for the first time.

“If you tell anyone, don't use my name unless you have to. But if you really need a witness, I'll speak.”

At the edge of the square, Rask appears. He pauses, looks around, then heads toward the inn as though the well means nothing to him.

Player: I'm afraid there may be no need for witnesses here. Don't worry, Mira. I'll get to the bottom of this. I don't believe that story about poisonous gases. I'm more concerned that something is being planned against the village, and the bell's tongue was removed so no one could raise the alarm. If you haven't seen me by the day after tomorrow, speak to Father Brann, if you trust him. God bless you!

Mira turns pale. The rope goes still in her hands. She looks at you as though no one has ever put that thought into words before.

“So no one could raise the alarm…” she whispers. “The bell was the only thing you could hear throughout the valley.” She takes a deep breath, presses her lips together, and meets your eyes. “Don't talk like that, sir. As though you won't come back.” She hesitates. “But if it happens… I'll tell Father. I don't think he's part of it. He's just… very frightened.”

She lifts the bucket and adds softly:

“May the Lord guide your steps.”

She heads toward the chapel, spilling a little water as she walks. Rask steps out of the Cuckoo Inn carrying a loaf of bread and looks toward the well. When he sees you, he offers no greeting. He studies you slowly, almost lazily, then sets off along the mountain road toward the mine.

The square gradually comes to life. Barlow sweeps outside the inn, hammer blows ring from the smithy again, and two women read the mayor's proclamation at the notice board.

The key

Player: I ask Barbara to make me a key like that one, if she still has the pattern. Then I'll enter the mine under cover of darkness.

Back at the smithy, Barbara is sorting iron. When you tell her what you want, her hands stop. She looks around as though the walls might have ears, goes to the door, peers outside, then closes and bars it.

“A key,” she says quietly. “To the mayor's mine gate.” For a while she says nothing. “Do you know what you're asking? If they find out it came from my workshop, I won't only lose the workshop.”

Her words are hard, but her voice shakes. She reaches toward a drawer on the back shelf, then withdraws her hand.

“Paul kept the original casting pattern, the one he used to make the keys. Yes, it's here.” She turns. “But I won't give it to a stranger just because he worked for me one afternoon. Being decent isn't proof. My son's life is at stake. If that pattern falls into the wrong hands, he could be the one who pays for it.”

Her eyes flick toward your palm again, but she says nothing about it.

“Tell me what you know. What you've seen. I don't want fine words. I want to know why you think the answer is in the mine. Convince me, and I won't ask where you heard it.”

Player: Your son disappeared there. The mayor even paid me to stop asking questions and leave the village as soon as possible. I know who removed the bell's tongue. And even if the mayor is right about poisonous gases—which I don't believe—I won't do any harm by going in. It's hardly a treasury. I'll lock the gate behind me, so make yourself a key as well, in case something happens to me. And get in touch with Mira.

Barbara remains silent for a long time. She rests her hands on the edge of the bench and glances toward the door as if someone might be listening.

“He paid you to leave,” she repeats slowly. “A man who ‘only has the village's interests at heart.’” She gives a bitter snort. “A man with a clear conscience doesn't pay strangers to stop asking questions. That means more to me than any pretty speech.” Her jaw tightens. “And what you said about treasure… I can see you're not going there for riches. But your last words convinced me: keep a key for myself. Someone who says that understands he might not come back.”

She opens the drawer and takes out two small sand molds and a casting pattern wrapped in cloth.

“I'll cast them this afternoon. They'll be ready by evening. It's a two-key lock; it needs both.” Her voice softens. “You take one, and I'll keep the other. If I haven't seen you by the third day, I'll go to Hartley and tell him everything I know.” She looks at you. “Mira… the bellringer's girl? You want me to find her? All right. But I won't ask what she knows until she wants to tell me.”

She wraps the pattern again and nods toward the fire.

“Stay nearby today, but keep out of sight. Rask went toward the mine this morning, and the men who bring me iron saw him eating at the inn around noon. I don't know what he's after, but I don't like having him so close.”

The day passes slowly. Between jobs, you check your equipment and listen to hammering and the hiss of hot metal from the back room. In the evening, Barbara emerges with two rough iron keys, still warm. She lays one in your palm and slips the other into her apron. The metal is heavier than it looks, its edge marked with fine, hurried chisel strokes.

“The lock is on the left,” she says quietly. “The smaller one first, then the larger. Take your time. Paul says it grinds.”

Outside, darkness gathers. A cold wind blows down from the mountain, and the moon rises along the horizon.

Player: After checking my tools and weapons, I rest for a while. Then I visit the tavern, but only to eat and listen to the other people talking. I don't ask questions. Once night falls, I head for the mine, taking a roundabout route.

In the attic, you inspect your equipment, tools, and weapon. The only thing missing is a lamp for the dark mine. When you go downstairs, Barbara has left a small shuttered oil lantern on the kitchen table for you. She turns away without a word. You rest until sunset.

Warmth, the smell of rich food, and quiet conversation greet you at the Cuckoo Inn. You sit at a corner table. Dora brings you soup and bread. There are dark circles under her eyes, and she says no more than necessary. You eat without asking questions and listen.

By the window, one woman tells another, “I had the same dream again. The bell was ringing, but not in the tower…” The other simply nods.

Behind the counter, Barlow mutters to Dora, “The mayor's men drank on his account again. Third week running, and old Voss hasn't even asked about it.”

In a corner, Black Jack the carter is half asleep over his mug. Suddenly he mumbles, “…there was a lantern… and the key rattled…” His companion shakes him awake and says something sharply under his breath. Jack falls silent.

Rask isn't here. Barlow remarks in passing that “the big fellow went up the mountain again today.”

Once the last guests have quietened down, you leave. Instead of crossing the square, you circle past the mill, following the stream and the birch grove where little moonlight reaches the ground. For a moment, you see a light in the mill and an old man at the window. You don't stop, and he doesn't move. No one follows you.

An hour later, you reach the mine gate. It is thick, iron-bound, with two keyholes. A rough wooden guard hut stands beside it. A lantern burns on a barrel outside, and Rask sits nearby with his sword across his knees, whittling a piece of wood. He is awake but bored, glancing regularly toward the trees. From the shadow of the birches, you are twenty paces away. He hasn't noticed you.

Into Deepwell

Player: I wait. Perhaps he'll fall asleep or step away to relieve himself. If I get an opening, I'll go in.

Crouching beneath the birches, you watch the gate. The moon moves slowly across the sky. The lantern flickers on the barrel, and after a while you can barely feel your fingers in the cold. Rask doesn't fall asleep. He carves, scrapes, yawns, and occasionally looks toward the gate.

Half an hour passes before he stands, cracks his neck, sheathes his sword, and walks behind the hut. You hear him humming tunelessly. Then the sound comes from beyond the wooden wall, outside the lantern's light.

This is your chance. You cover the twenty paces in a crouch, your footsteps almost silent on the soft ground. You insert the key into the smaller hole and turn it gently. A clean, delicate click. At the larger keyhole, the lock grinds just as Paul warned, and you hold your breath. The humming stops. Then Rask clears his throat, and a boot scrapes over gravel.

You ease the gate open, slip inside, and hook the lock back onto the iron fitting so it looks fastened from a distance. You pull the gate shut. You cannot lock it from this side, but it is closed, and in the lantern light Rask sees nothing suspicious. A moment later, you hear him settle back onto the barrel and resume whittling.

For a while you stand in darkness, letting your eyes adjust. Then you light your lantern, opening the shutter only enough to cast its light ahead along the walls.

The entrance passage on Deepwell's first level is broad: the silver mine's old main tunnel, supported by rotten but still-standing beams. The air is cold and dry, with a faint earthy smell. It neither stings nor chokes you, and you feel no dizziness. There is no apparent sign of the poisonous gas Voss described.

Fresh bootprints crowd the muddy floor, all leading deeper underground. Wooden carts stand along a narrow track by the wall. One has overturned, spilling a barrel's worth of heavy stone. To the right, fallen rock partly blocks a side passage. Yet the rubble's edges are clean and free of settled dust: someone has recently moved it to clear a way through.

Your palm is hot and tingling, almost painfully so. From below comes the same dull, rhythmic hum you heard in the square, only closer and stronger. It isn't loud, but you feel it in your chest.

Player: I take the side passage.

The passage is narrow and low. Twice you duck to avoid striking your head. The rubble has indeed been shifted within the past few days. After twenty paces, the tunnel widens into an old miners' rest chamber.

Benches have been carved along its stone walls. In the center is a dead fire, its ashes not quite cold. Three straw mattresses lie on the floor, and a battered chest stands in the corner. Nearby are a broken clay jug, a pewter spoon from a tavern, and a snapped mining chisel engraved with a tiny G.

Above the fire pit, a black vein runs through the rock. Near it, your palm almost burns. The material is dark and faintly glossy, neither silver nor coal. A broken piece, palm-sized and heavy, lies on a bench. When your lantern falls on it, the surface seems to swallow the light rather than reflect it. Here the humming in your chest is strongest. You can almost hear it inside the wall.

The chest holds scraps of bread, bandages, an empty water flask, and a folded rag with a message scrawled in pencil:

“Emery stayed below. P. says not to touch the stone, but the master told us to bring it up. I don't like this. —G.”

At the far end of the chamber, a narrow passage slopes downward. Drag marks run along the floor beside the wall, as though something—or someone—has been hauled through. A cold draft rises from below. So does the hum.

Player: I follow the tracks.

The passage is steep, the rock wet and slippery beneath your feet. The drag marks form two narrow tracks, as if something was pulled on ropes or a stretcher. Bootprints run alongside them. Thirty paces farther on, the slope ends at a wooden ladder descending into a vertical shaft. Its rungs are new, the timber still pale. You hang the lantern around your neck to free your hands and climb down.

The second level

At the bottom, everything changes. The walls are no longer rough-cut rock but smooth blocks of ancient masonry, much older than the mine. The air is cooler and heavier. The hum has become a deep, slow pulse, more a pressure in your ears than a sound. Your palm seems to beat in time with it. For a moment, you feel that the depths know you are here.

The tracks lead along a vaulted corridor. Faded bell motifs decorate its arches, like the stamp on the notice board. After sixty paces, the corridor forks.

To the right is a short, dry passage ending at a wooden door with iron bars. The drag marks lead there. From behind the door come uneven breathing and an occasional muffled cough.

Straight ahead, the main corridor continues toward a faint, warm glow, perhaps a fire or lantern. Stone scrapes somewhere in that direction. Someone whistles softly, then stops.

A thin black vein threads the vaulted wall. Whenever your lantern touches it, the tingling in your palm intensifies.

The barred door is fifteen paces away. The light down the main corridor is at least forty.

Player: I put out the lantern and rely on the light already down here.

You blow out the flame, and darkness drops over you so thickly that you cannot see your own hand. The lantern glass ticks as it cools. The metal clicks once. Then all is quiet except for the slow humming below.

After a few moments, your eyes adjust. The distant glow reveals the corridor's outlines: the curve of the vault, the edges of the masonry, the dark mouths of the two passages. The light is faint but steady, perhaps the embers of a well-built fire. The way to the barred door is completely dark, but the smooth wall guides your hand. Under your fingertips, carved bells stand out from the stone.

Now you see something your lantern had hidden. Between you and the fire, a slender silhouette stands against the wall. It is motionless and no longer whistling. The silence doesn't suggest boredom. The figure appears to be listening, its face turned precisely toward the spot where your lantern was burning.

Behind the barred door, someone coughs again, closer this time, as though they have moved up to the bars. A young, hoarse voice whispers one question:

“Who's there?”

Player: I slip into a shadow where the figure won't see me even if he comes close. Carefully, I draw my weapon and wait.

To the left of the junction, a recess lies between the wall and a fallen support beam. You settle into it, your back against cold stone, and slowly draw your sword without a sound. Your palm seems to tremble now rather than tingle, but your hand remains steady. You hold your breath in the darkness.

The figure moves. Slowly, almost sliding along the wall, it approaches. Its footsteps are barely audible; soft material pads the soles of its boots. At the junction, it stops three paces from you. Backlit by the fire, its shape becomes clear: slender, tightly clothed, a short, narrow blade in one hand. It lifts its nose as though sniffing the air.

“Oil,” it says almost inaudibly, seemingly to itself. “Freshly extinguished lamp oil.” The figure tilts its head without looking toward you. “Not the usual smell when someone comes creeping down here with the rats.” The voice is soft and mocking, almost friendly.

The hoarse voice speaks again from behind the bars.

“Thorn? Is that you? Who are you talking to?”

The figure gives a short, dry laugh and turns toward the cell, presenting its back to you. Three paces away, its blade hangs from its right hand while the left rests against the wall. For one suspended instant, you cannot tell whether it has found you or is merely playing with you.

Player: I knock Thorn out.

Three paces. His back is turned, his attention on the cell. You step from the shadows, your boots barely touching the stone, and strike at the back of his head with your sword's pommel.

Thorn senses the movement before he hears it and half turns. The blow lands behind his temple rather than squarely on the back of his head. It is still enough. His knees fold. The narrow blade clatters across the stones, and he falls with a dull thud.

The voice behind the bars rises at once, trembling and breathless.

“Thorn? What was that? Who's there?”

You kneel beside the fallen man. He is breathing steadily, unconscious. He may only stay down for a few minutes; he looks tough enough to recover quickly. A small, slender key hangs from his belt, along with a concealed blade wrapped in cloth and a little leather purse containing a few silver coins and a folded paper. You turn the paper toward the distant fire, but it is too dark to read.

Nothing moves down the corridor. The whistling has stopped.

Player: I tie his hands with his own belt and gag him with a rag. As I do it, I ask, “Paul, is that you?”

You unbuckle Thorn's belt and remove the key, purse, and hidden blade. Then you bind his wrists behind his back with the strap and stuff a rag from beside his left boot into his mouth. He doesn't stir. His chest rises and falls evenly. You tighten the knot twice and move your sword safely out of his reach.

“Paul, is that you?” you ask quietly toward the bars.

Silence. Then feet shuffle inside the cell, and the hoarse voice answers from just behind the door.

“Yes… it's me. Who are you?” Exhaustion roughens the words, but beneath their trembling is a trace of hope. “Did Mother send you? Is she all right?” He hurries on, afraid of being interrupted. “Thorn… did you kill him? Or just knock him out? Because if he wakes…” He stops, then lowers his voice. “There's a canvas sack beside the fire. Thorn never lets it out of his sight, not even when he sleeps. I think it holds the bell's tongue they brought down from the tower.”

A thin hand closes around the bars. You cannot see his face, but his fingers are covered in dirt and cuts.

“Old Corvin is on the third level. They work day and night. They took Gregory and Emery down there, but kept me here because I made the lock.” He coughs. “If you can get me out, I'll tell you everything I've seen. I'll testify against Voss too.”

Player: I unlock the cell, give Paul Thorn's weapon, then light the lantern somewhere its glow won't spill into the corridor. I unfold the paper.

The slender key turns freely. The lock clicks, and the barred door creaks open. You glance along the main corridor: the firelight hasn't changed, and nothing moves.

The cell is cramped and damp, with straw and a bucket in one corner. Paul stands by the wall, thin and stubbled, his hair thick with dust. An iron shackle circles his ankle, its chain fixed to a ring in the wall. He grips the bars with a shaking hand, then points to the shackle. The same key opens it. The chain clatters to the floor. Paul steadies himself, rubs his leg, and looks up at you with wordless relief.

“Mother…” he begins, but his voice breaks.

You hand him Thorn's concealed blade. He turns it between his fingers with a smith's understanding of its weight, then nods.

“Thank you. I'm no fighter, but I'll stand my ground if I have to.”

The cell passage is a dead end, hidden from the main corridor by the wall. In a sheltered corner, you light the lantern with its shutter facing the stone and keep the flame low. Paul crouches beside you as you unfold the paper.

The rough, angular handwriting is hurried:

“T.—Keep the clapper in the sack beside the fire. The old man says the seal will dissolve in two nights. Until then, let no one down to the third level except the masters. The stranger staying with the smith is asking questions. We still need the P. boy for the lock. If there's trouble, the usual way. —R.”

In one corner is a quick sketch: a bell with a hand inside it, crossed out by a line. Paul goes pale.

“Rask's handwriting,” he whispers. “He always brought the orders. ‘The usual way’ means…” He cannot finish.

Your palm doesn't hurt, but the drawing sends a fresh wave of tingling through it.

The clapper

Player: How many people are farther down?

Paul leans against the wall, counting on his fingers as he speaks quickly and quietly.

“This is what I saw two days ago, before they brought me here because of the lock. A mercenary called Cocoon guards the fire. Fat, lazy, always dozing beside the sack in the evenings. Thorn watches the cell and the way down. That's why he was on his own.

“On the third level, Master Corvin has two hooded assistants. Neither speaks. I don't know who they are. Gregory and Emery are down there too, forced to dig toward the black vein. Gregory was still alive when I last saw him, but Emery keeps coughing. He looks very ill.” He pauses. “About six or seven altogether, then. Three of them armed: Cocoon, Thorn, and Rask. But Rask is up at the gate.

“If Rask's ‘usual way’ means what I think it does, he'll come down himself or send a message if there's trouble. I don't know when. Corvin said the seal would give way by tomorrow midnight at the latest.”

In the corridor, Thorn stirs. A muffled groan escapes through his gag.

Player: We lock Thorn in the cell. Paul takes over his post. “Don't fight if Rask comes. Warn me instead.” I keep the cell key, put out the lamp, and head down.

You drag Thorn into the cell by his armpits and lay him on the straw, his gag and bonds still in place. Outside, you close the door, turn the key twice, and pocket it. Paul nods, holding the concealed blade. His steps are unsteady, but he is standing straighter.

“I won't fight,” he whispers. “I'll warn you if Rask comes. How should I signal?”

You agree on three taps against the wall with the dagger's pommel. Paul repeats the instruction, nods, and takes Thorn's old position beside the fallen beam. His back is against the dark wall, his eyes on the shaft leading up.

You extinguish the lantern and move along the main corridor by the fire's glow. Carved bells pass beneath your fingertips as you keep close to the wall. The pulse grows stronger, your palm almost beating in time with it.

Forty paces on, the corridor opens into a round chamber with a small fire smoldering in its center. A fat, bearded mercenary sits on a barrel, head slumped onto his chest. His sword leans against the wall nearby. He isn't deeply asleep: his breathing is uneven, and he occasionally snorts. One hand rests on the club across his lap.

At his feet lies an open canvas sack. A dull gray piece of metal glints inside.

Across the room, a narrow stone stairway descends through the back wall. Cold air and the humming rise from its dark mouth, along with a faint, repeated tapping: someone chiseling stone far below.

Player: I approach carefully, put my sword to his throat, and signal him to keep quiet.

You creep along the wall, your footsteps nearly silent. In the embers' glow, you watch Cocoon's chest rise slowly. Two steps away, a pebble grinds beneath your boot. His eyes snap open, his hand jerks toward the club, but your sword is already under his throat. He freezes, the weapon half raised, then slowly lowers it into his lap.

“Don't…” he breathes, staring at the blade. Sweat shines on his bearded face. “I won't shout. I won't shout, sir, just don't…” His voice breaks. The club slips from his thigh to the floor.

He seems less a fighter than a man paid to stand guard. His gaze darts to the sack, then back to your sword.

“I only guard what they tell me. They pay me. I don't ask questions. Master Corvin's below with his assistants. I don't go down there. They told me to stay here.” He swallows. “If you want to take something, take it. I don't want any trouble.”

Below, the chiseling stops for a moment, as though someone is listening. Then it starts again.

Player: Cocoon goes into the cell with Thorn. What's in the sack?

Cocoon glances toward the sack. You step on its edge to hold it open, keep your sword at his throat, and pull back the canvas with your free hand.

Inside, wrapped in a rag, is a long, heavy, pear-shaped piece of iron with a loop at one end to hang inside a bell. The metal is dull gray and free of rust. Looking at it sends heat through your entire palm. Fine bell motifs run around its surface, the same ones carved into the arches and stamped on the old poster. It must weigh at least ten pounds.

“I don't know what it is,” Cocoon whispers. “They told me not to touch it or move it. I just guard it.”

You march him toward the cell with your sword at his back. Paul stiffens as you approach and raises his blade, then lowers it when he recognizes you.

Inside the cell, Thorn lies on the straw, now awake. His face is pale and furious above the gag. When he sees Cocoon, he gives a short, muffled grunt.

You push Cocoon inside, lock the door twice, and pocket the key. For a while he simply stands in the middle of the cell. Then he sits down on the straw, resigned, eyes lowered. Thorn seems to snort with contempt. The chain you removed from Paul's ankle still lies on the floor, but you leave it alone.

The steady chiseling continues below. The clapper remains in its sack beside the fire.

Player: I leave the clapper with Paul and sneak downstairs.

You return to the fire and kneel beside the sack. Wrapped in its cloth, the clapper is cold and much heavier than it looks. As your palm touches the metal, the tingling becomes a single, clear warmth. For an instant, something seems to answer from very far above—not a sound, but a sensation in your bones. Then it fades.

Paul is still beside the fallen beam, watching the shaft. His eyes widen when he sees what you are carrying.

“That's it…” he whispers. “I'll look after it.”

He takes it, wraps it in the sack, and pushes it into the wall recess behind the beam, covering it with his coat.

“Three taps if Rask comes. I won't fight.” He hesitates. “I don't know what you're planning down there, but please be careful. Corvin isn't the sort of man who lets people walk away with his things.”

You cross the fire chamber and creep into the stairway. There are about thirty wet stone steps, the carved bells guiding your hand down the wall. The chiseling grows louder. The deep pulse drums in your chest.

At the bottom, an arch opens onto a narrow stone gallery with no railing, some ten paces above the cavern floor. You kneel, lie flat, and look over the edge.

The third level

A vast natural cavern stretches below, its ceiling lost in darkness. In the center lies a circular stone disc, six paces across and fractured by cracks. A bell and a hand are engraved on its surface—the same symbol that burns in your palm. Darkness seeps from the cracks, swallowing the light, as though the black vein has spread through the stone.

Two motionless hooded figures stand on either side of the disc, holding bronze rods.

Beside it, a thin gray-haired man in gray clothing bends over a lantern, writing in a notebook and counting softly. Corvin. From time to time, he places a small instrument against the rim and nods.

In a cutting to the left, two gaunt men dig. One is bent and coughing, his skin gray: Emery. The other is younger and broad-shouldered, but his movements are slowing: Gregory. Shackles rattle at their ankles. A third hooded figure stands behind them with a whip.

Corvin looks up and speaks calmly, almost to himself.

“By midnight tomorrow. The vein is opening. The seal will yield.” Then, louder toward the cutting: “Faster! Anyone who can't keep up will be replaced.”

Player: I step out. “I've come to help!” I rush the man with the whip and use the surprise to disarm him. If that fails, I'll run him through, but I'd rather shove him between Gregory and Emery and tell them, “Hold him down!” Then I turn to Corvin. “I've come to warn you about the seal!”

You race down the stairs from the gallery, leap the final three steps, and charge toward the overseer.

“I've come to help!”

He looks up, but his hood limits his vision. The whip has barely begun to rise when you seize his wrist, wrench it from his hand, and shove him shoulder-first toward the cutting. He crashes into Gregory and Emery.

“Hold him down!”

For a second Gregory stares. Then he loops his shackle chain around the hooded man's neck and pulls him backward. The man claws for breath. Emery falls, coughing, but pins the man's other arm beneath his leg. The overseer struggles without shouting or fighting back.

The noise echoes through the cavern. Both figures beside the disc turn toward you. They lower their bronze rods and separate as though preparing to surround you. Neither speaks.

Corvin remains still. He closes his notebook, removes the instrument from the rim, and studies you with curiosity rather than fear. His eyes briefly settle on your palm, now visibly glowing near the disc. The cracks pulse slowly in response.

“You've come to warn me about the seal,” he repeats, measured and almost pleasant. “Erwin Greenthorn, if I'm not mistaken. Voss mentioned a traveler staying with the smith who asks a great many questions.” He nods toward the disc. “Few people know that's a seal. Fewer still know what it holds. Tell me what you know before you lose your appetite for conversation.”

The two hooded figures approach, their rods pointing toward the floor.

Faith and knowledge

Player: With my sword drawn, I move so the two hooded men have to stand between me and Gregory and Emery, with their backs to the miners. I signal with my left hand that they can act too. Meanwhile, I tell Corvin: “I haven't properly introduced myself. I am Erwin Greenthorn, an anointed paladin-priest of the Holy See, an investigator of pagan rituals. Forgive me for appearing without full plate armor. What you've learned about the disc and the demonic forces behind it is only half the truth. I'm afraid the other half could easily kill you. That's why I've come to warn you. Besides, abducting people is against the law!”

First, the footwork. You step back and sideways from the restrained overseer, sword held before you. To reach you from the disc, the two hooded men must pass between you and the prisoners. For a moment, they do just that, turning their backs toward the cutting as they advance with loosely leveled rods.

At the quick signal from your left hand, Gregory looks up. Without a word, he transfers the chain from around the overseer's neck to his own fist and pulls it taut.

Corvin listens to your introduction, then gives a quiet, almost delighted laugh.

“A paladin-priest. Anointed by the Holy See.” He looks you over slowly. “I know the order, Mr. Greenthorn. Its knights arrive thirty strong, with sealed letters. Their first act is to consult the local priest. You came alone. You sleep at a smith's, with soot on your fingers and village boots on your feet.” He smiles. “But I grant you courage. Voss mentioned someone asking questions, and that those questions were well chosen.”

He closes his instrument and gestures toward the disc, whose cracks now pulse in a visible rhythm.

“Demonic forces.” He shakes his head. “There's the misunderstanding. It isn't a demon. It's older than the demons and gods the Holy See concerns itself with. But what you say about the disc and the vein interests me. Perhaps you know something I don't. The mark on your palm is the same as the one on the disc.” He gives those words particular emphasis. “The other half of the truth, you say. Tell me, and perhaps we can spare ourselves further unpleasantness. I dislike unnecessary blood sacrifice, especially when the blood is mine.”

His voice never rises. The two hooded men pause and look toward him as though awaiting orders. The one on the left slowly raises his rod above his shoulder. The other edges closer to you, catches his foot in the exposed length of chain, and stumbles when Gregory pulls. His rod clatters to the floor.

Player: Not gods. There is only one God! I see theology isn't your strong suit, so let me help. Everything is God's creation: the whole earth, every stone, every blade of grass—and, somewhat harder to explain, you too. A true believer needs neither an escort of thirty nor a sealed letter. We pray for a reason. We know where our Lord calls us; that's how I came here. Even if you think you're merely playing with a phenomenon, the Destroyer is pulling the strings. That puts it in the demonic category. But I'm listening. Why do you think otherwise?

Corvin lets you finish, then slowly shakes his head with something almost like admiration.

“The Holy See's paladins don't usually put it that way,” he remarks dryly. “One God who created everything, stones and grass alike. Then He also created whatever sleeps beneath the disc. And if it is God's creation, it isn't a demon, merely a creature.” One corner of his mouth lifts. “An elegant argument, I admit. I can't contradict it. ‘Demon’ is a word born of fear, Mr. Greenthorn, not knowledge.”

The cracks pulse more brightly, as though answering your words—or perhaps your palm. Corvin notices. His expression briefly grows serious.

“The old notes call what sleeps beneath it the Listener. It does not destroy, demand, or speak. It listens. Hence the name. The seal doesn't imprison it so much as keep it asleep. Whoever placed the seal didn't seek to understand it. They were simply afraid.” His gaze returns to your palm. “That is a bellringer's mark. Rare, and rarer still to find someone in whom it truly works. In you, it does. I'd rather not waste it.”

The man on the left still holds his rod raised. The one on the right has regained his feet and retrieves his weapon. They neither attack nor withdraw. Corvin remains unhurried, his voice settling into practiced calm.

“I have a practical proposal. Tell me what you know of this other half of the truth, and show me what you feel when your palm is near the disc. In return, I'll release the prisoners, and no one will harm you on your way to the gate. More than a paladin without armor could reasonably hope for.”

There is still no sound from the corridor above. Paul's signal has not come.

Player: I study the chamber, trying to work out what is breaking the seal. Is it the material being fed onto the disc? Where could I interrupt the process? Meanwhile, I say: “The veins in my hand are pulsing more strongly, but that's beside the point. To my mind, knowing the Lord is the highest knowledge. You lack that knowledge, so you don't understand that the purpose of our existence here is to learn to distinguish good from evil. To converse with a Listener is to tear open the dark recesses of ourselves, making way for the Destroyer. He doesn't attack with claws or fire, but with despair, hopelessness, inhumanity—I could go on listing the effects of that darkness on the mind. Somewhere within you, surely you sense that chasing knowledge can take you into dangerous waters. There is One who hears us already. We have no need of this.

“You're also mistaken that this is the most we can achieve without armor. Armor is merely a tool of battle. Words can fight more effectively for others—even for you. I hope I've arrived in time. Please stop this childish experiment. Some things are sealed for a reason. The fruit in Eden wasn't forbidden without cause.”

While you speak, your eyes keep working. Corvin lets you finish. When he answers, his voice is no longer mocking, merely cool and polite.

“A fine speech, but you're wrong about one thing. I don't intend to converse with the Listener. It doesn't speak. That's why it's called that. I intend to bind it. Whoever binds it will possess all the knowledge it dreams, and need never fear it. Your example from Eden is charming, but someone picked that fruit, and the world didn't collapse.” He pauses, studying your palm. “The binding needs a key. That mark you bear. That's what I don't want to waste.”

Then, more quietly, almost casually:

“Thorn usually warns me when a stranger comes down here. He hasn't today.”

The hooded man on the left lowers his rod to the floor and starts toward the stairs. He doesn't hurry, but he walks straight there.

As you examine the chamber, the process becomes clearer. A narrow carved channel runs from the cutting to the edge of the disc. The miners have been putting pieces of the black vein into it. From there, the black seepage flows into the disc's cracks.

Around the rim runs an engraved ring of bells. The bronze rods rest against it, and wherever their tips touch, the carved lines crumble. The rods are not merely weapons; they are tools for breaking the seal. Only three sections of the ring remain intact.

At the center is a hand-shaped hollow exactly the size of your palm. That is what Corvin wants: your hand there. You don't know what he would do with it, but the pulsing gathers around the hollow, and your palm answers as you move.

Listening closely to the engraved lines, you sense a low vibration, as though hearing the echo of a bell—except what you hear is its absence. It seems to come from beyond the disc, as if the bell above belongs to this same seal and has fallen silent.

Blocking the channel or taking away the rods might slow the process, but neither appears enough to stop it. And Corvin is unlikely to let you try.

Player: Have you really thought this through? You want knowledge from something called the Listener? That's rather absurd. The world didn't collapse; it chose the longer, rougher road. That's why you don't feel it is perfect, and why you chase knowledge in search of answers. If you insist on this course, send the boys home and dismiss the others too. They can tell everyone what we're about to do. I'll pray, then place my palm at the center of the disc. Whatever happens will be in God's hands. But I did warn you!

Corvin raises an eyebrow at “the longer, rougher road,” but doesn't argue.

“A fair bargain,” he says dryly. “The prisoners are only a burden to me.”

He nods to the remaining hooded assistant, who unlocks Gregory's and Emery's shackles.

“They may go up the stairs and on to the gate. But Rask guards it, and he is not one of my men. I can't promise more than lies within my power.”

For a moment, the miners cannot believe it. Gregory shoulders Emery's weight, looks at you once more, and helps him stumble toward the stairs. The overseer remains on the floor under your sword.

You pray quietly, forming the words under your breath, and something in your stomach settles. Then you approach the center of the disc and lower your palm into the hand-shaped hollow.

Cold. Not painful, but as though the stone has taken over your pulse. The black seepage stops, then begins to draw toward your hand. The three intact sections of the bell-ring glow faintly. From the depths, where there was only humming, several voices speak together, calm and almost gentle:

“Bellringer… blood of Ilse. You have come.”

They are not threatening. That is the worst part. With your palm against the stone, you taste the words you spoke moments ago: hopelessness, inhumanity. The very things you named seem to be finding their way back toward you. Your prayer holds, but something presses against it.

“You wish to know where the Lord calls you. I will tell you. Give me the voice I have lacked so long, and you need never ask again. Every answer will be yours. Every pain will pass.”

Corvin steps forward and opens his notebook.

“Don't take your hand away,” he murmurs.

The hooded assistant raises his rod toward one of the remaining sections of the ring.

Player: I keep praying: “As You have told me, Lord, Your answers are enough for me. Deal with this Listener as You see fit. Protect us. Protect the village and the boys.”

As you finish the prayer, the voices fall silent. Not menacingly, but as a listener falls silent. For the first time, the being that has always listened hears something unfamiliar: a person asking it for nothing.

The stone changes beneath your palm. The cold no longer draws at you. Instead, it seems to breathe. The three surviving sections of the ring produce a deeper, duller vibration, almost audible. You hear the missing bell, the sound that is not there but which the disc remembers. Your palm and its mark resonate with it. It is only half a peal, but the Listener remains still.

Corvin pales. His notebook slips to the floor.

“It isn't accepting his hand,” he whispers. “It isn't being bound. It's… listening.”

He turns sharply to his assistant.

“The rod! Now!”

The hooded figure presses its tip against the ring. Engraved lines crack, and black seepage bursts upward, racing toward the edge. Something trembles far below. The voices rise again, fragmented now, no longer speaking together, almost confused:

“…voice… missing… the voice…”

At that moment, through your palm and the stone, you feel three dull taps from far above.

One. Two. Three.

Paul's signal, carried by the disc.

The pulse accelerates. The cracks widen. Only two sections of the ring remain intact.

Player: When I said to send everyone away, that included the hooded men! You aren't paying attention to the details, Master Corvin! I order the assistants out and throw the rods aside.

Corvin laughs with something close to appreciation.

“I pay attention to details, Mr. Greenthorn. That's precisely why I know you meant the prisoners by ‘the others.’ My assistants are not ‘the others.’ They are my men, and they take their orders from me.” His voice grows drier, not sharper. “Stay.”

The hooded man ignores your command. His rod touches the next section, and the engraving begins to crumble. Blackness races from the crack toward the rim. The disc pulses faster. The scattered voices whisper, “…voice… missing…” Beneath your hand, the stone grows hot.

From the disc's center, you cannot reach the rod. The assistant stands three paces away at the edge. If you move toward him, you must remove your hand, and the Listener will no longer be listening. If you stay, he will soon finish this section and move to the last.

Through the stone comes a dull thump from the stairs, followed by a brief, muffled cry. You cannot tell whose.

The last section

Player: Then I let go of the Listener and act. I'll hit the hooded man over the head with the rod if I have to. Then I grab Corvin and tie him up with whatever I can find.

You lift your hand from the hollow. The disc seems to hiss. The voices break off, and the black seepage surges toward the rim. There is no time to think. Three steps to the hooded man.

He sees you coming and swings the rod away from the ring to thrust at your side. You partly dodge; bronze grazes your ribs. You seize the shaft with your left hand. The metal is cold enough to seem to burn. You strike his head with your sword's pommel, and he collapses.

You wrench away the rod, but its tip scrapes across the ring as you do. The next-to-last section breaks apart with a crack.

Only one remains intact.

Corvin has stepped back and abandoned his notebook. He raises his right hand toward the disc and whispers words you cannot understand. The air thickens like a wet sheet and slams into your chest. You stagger backward, striking your knee against the stone. The rod slips from your hand and rolls to the rim. You can stand, but you cannot catch your breath.

“Enough!” For the first time, Corvin's voice is not calm. Sweat covers his face, his eyes fixed on the disc. “If I can't bind it, at least I can stop it before we all die. But I need your mark.”

Eight paces away, at the mouth of the cutting, the discarded shackles lie on the ground. Fast, heavy footsteps descend the stairs.

Player: Now do you see what you're playing with? I rush him, throwing the rod at him before I get close. I won't give him a chance to cast another spell. Over my shoulder, I shout, “Rask, not another step! Better yet, get out of here!”

You snatch up the bronze rod from the rim and throw it while running. It spins through the air and strikes Corvin's raised forearm rather than his chest. It is enough. His whisper breaks off. The air shudders, and the pressure on your chest vanishes as if the wet sheet has been pulled away. Corvin hisses, clutches his arm, and staggers back.

You reach him before he recovers. His hand shakes, his notebook lies on the ground, and now he is watching you instead of the disc. You seize his shoulder, press your sword's pommel against his ribs, and force him to the floor. He doesn't resist, only gasps for breath.

Behind you, the disc growls. Not the voices—the stone itself. Black seepage reaches the rim and begins to foam around the last intact section.

A heavy boot scrapes overhead. Rask stands at the top of the stairs, his leather vest torn, his knuckles bloody, his sword at his side. The stairway behind him is dark. You cannot see who lies there. He looks over the cavern: the disc, the fallen assistants, you, and Corvin. Whether because of your warning or the sight of the stone, he stops.

“Erwin,” he says hoarsely. “Knew it was you.” His eyes flick toward the blackness spilling over the stone. “It isn't supposed to do that.”

From the floor, Corvin forces out an order.

“Rask! You have the mayor's orders. Arrest him!”

Player: Rask, I am God's messenger, and this pagan wizard is about to unleash who knows what horror on the world. If you value your life, run and warn the villagers. As far as I'm concerned, the mayor's authority has just expired!

Rask stares at you, a bitter line appearing at the corner of his mouth.

“God's messenger,” he says hoarsely. “God's messenger stays with the smith and tells the mayor about three friends who don't exist.” He doesn't raise his voice. “Words don't interest me. Voss promised me fifty gold for the bell's tongue. I haven't seen a copper.”

His gaze returns to the disc, where blackness froths around the last surviving section. His voice lowers.

“I caught the miners on the stairs. Broke one of their noses. They're alive, sitting against the wall. The boy, Paul, started shouting from behind the beam. I restrained him too.” He clenches his fist. “That's as far as I went. I know nothing about the sack.”

Corvin coughs beneath your hold.

“Rask! The agreement is between the mayor and me. Arrest him!”

Rask doesn't look at him. One hand settles on his sword without drawing it. The other grips the stair railing as though the ground might shift beneath him.

“I don't like that stone,” he tells you. “If you really know how to stop it, do it. But I want my money, and I don't intend to rot on these stairs.”

A dull crack sounds inside the disc. The blackness creeps a finger's width farther around the last section.

Player: I throw him the ten gold coins. He'll have to collect the rest from the mayor. And I ask him to make an effort with those stairs!

Rask catches the purse and weighs it in his palm. He doesn't count the coins. He doesn't need to.

“Ten,” he says. “Out of fifty.” The bitter line remains, but his hand slowly drops from his sword. “Voss owes me the rest. He'll pay, if he's in the mood.”

He tucks the purse into his belt and glances at the blackness licking the final section.

“If Voss asks, we never met. If you ask, he never paid me either.”

From the floor, Corvin growls:

“Rask, we have a contract…”

“This wasn't in it.”

Rask turns toward the stairs without looking at him, then throws one last sentence back to you.

“I'll make that effort. I'll take the miners to the gate, and the boy too. If anyone asks, the gate was locked, just as it should be. In eight minutes, I'm gone. But not because you told me to.”

His heavy footsteps retreat steadily. Above, you hear faint voices: Gregory and Emery, then Paul calling your name.

The gallery falls silent. Only the disc remains, Corvin pinned beneath your hand, and a soundless vibration in the air.

Blackness creeps another finger's width around the last section. Something cracks deep inside the stone.

“Eight minutes,” Corvin whispers, his face gray. “Maybe ten. If the last section goes, it won't be three days but an hour. Midnight won't matter then.” His eyes settle on your palm. “I can't stop it alone. It needs the sound that mark could make, and the sound isn't here.”

Back to the bell

Player: What did I tell you about God? And you yourself said there was no need to fear the Listener. Let's act accordingly. Come along. I haul him up and drag him out of the mine without looking back. I'll lock the gate when we reach the entrance.

Corvin doesn't resist. You bind his hands behind his back with the overseer's belt, haul him upright by the shoulder, and make for the stairs. Another crack echoes from the disc behind you. Blackness is already licking the final section.

Stumbling and gasping on the steps, Corvin speaks so quietly you can barely hear him.

“You need to know: the seal isn't on the disc. It's on the bell. The disc is only its reflection.” He swallows. “I had the tongue taken away. Once the bell rings, this mining operation will be finished. Until now, I've only admitted that to myself.”

At the top, he slips, and you catch him. The hooded assistant who went upstairs lies unconscious on the gallery steps, bearing the marks of Rask's fists. No one else is there.

On the second level, the fire's embers still glow faintly in the long corridor. A deep, dull rumbling follows you. Both Rask and Corvin spoke of eight or ten minutes.

At the junction, you stop. Paul's coat lies on the floor of the recess beside the fallen beam, as though someone pulled it aside. A dull piece of iron, wrapped in cloth, shows beneath it: the clapper.

From the cell come rattling bars and muffled cries. Thorn and Cocoon are still inside.

Player: I let Thorn and Cocoon out and tell them to gather everyone quickly and lock the mine. Then I run for the bell with the clapper.

The lock clicks twice. Cocoon immediately drops to his knees, muttering into his beard that he would have been perfectly happy staying by the fire. With open hands, he promises everything: he'll lock the mine, gather everyone, anything as long as he doesn't have to remain underground.

Thorn pulls the gag from his mouth without a word, rubs his wrists, and picks up his narrow blade from the corridor floor. He looks at you for a long time.

“I was guarding the sack, not the disc,” he says dryly. “If Rask's gone and Corvin's coming out tied up, I haven't got an employer.” He slips the blade into his belt. “I won't be locking any mines. But I won't be at the gate tonight either. Take that for what it's worth.”

His eyes flick toward your palm. Then he turns, pushing Cocoon ahead of him toward the way out. Whoever stays can lock the mine.

You pull the clapper from beneath Paul's coat. It feels heavier than ten pounds, but your palm is hot now, and for an instant the humming seems to falter. You secure the clapper to your back with the sack's strap and propel Corvin ahead of you by the shoulder.

Up the ladder, then along the first-level passage. The ground first trembles, then shakes. Dust falls from the beams. A cart starts rolling on its own. With his hands tied, Corvin stumbles but keeps up, panting as he talks.

“Hanging it inside the bell won't be enough. The mark must hold it. There's a way to ring it. The bellringers knew.” He trips, and you catch him. “Ilse left notes. I haven't read them.”

The gate stands wide open. Rask is gone. Outside, beneath the birches, Paul and Gregory are supporting Emery. Paul spots you and calls:

“I'm going to Captain Hartley! Gregory and Emery are going to the smithy!”

You nod. A dull boom rolls from deep inside the mountain. The birch leaves shiver. Dogs bark down in the village.

You run downhill, the clapper pounding against your back, Corvin following. Lights appear in the village windows one after another. In the square, the water in the well seems to ripple.

The chapel door is ajar, candlelight showing through the gap. Father Brann stands before the altar. He looks up and sees you, the clapper over your shoulder, and Corvin bound behind you. The iron-bound tower door on the left is locked.

Player: Once we've attached the clapper, I'll ring the bell and pray: “My God, stop this madness and seal whatever must remain sealed.”

Father Brann understands at a glance: the clapper on your back, your glowing palm, Corvin's bound hands. Without a question, he takes the tower key from his vest.

“Ilse's grandson,” he says softly. It isn't a question. “For three weeks, I've been waiting for someone to bring it back.” His voice trembles. “We'll manage the rest. I'll tie Corvin to a pew. The two elders in the corner can watch him, and Captain Hartley will be here soon. Go.”

Corvin sinks onto the pew, the strap still around his wrists. He says nothing, only looks at your palm and lowers his eyes.

The spiral staircase is narrow, and the clapper grows heavier with every step. Above, the great dark bell hangs in its cramped, drafty chamber, its rope cut through. Brann climbs after you, breathless, and presses a yellowed, oil-stained notebook into your hand: Ilse's journal.

It falls open at a half-torn page. In familiar handwriting, a single passage reads:

“The marked hand holds the tongue, not the rope. Three pulses, like the heart. Know not the sound, but the One who calls for it.”

You lift the clapper into the bell's mouth. The iron refuses to settle into its mounting until your palm touches it. Then it clicks into place as though it had never left.

The ground thunders beneath you. Dust sifts from the tower's stones. Your palm is hot against the iron. You pray, without eloquence, with the only words you can manage:

“Lord, stop this madness, and seal what must remain sealed.”

At the first pulse, the bell makes no sound. Only your palm vibrates.

At the second, the tower shakes, but still no sound comes.

At the third, the clapper strikes. The note breaks free, not loud but all-encompassing: deep, clear, ancient. It doesn't speak to your ears. It sounds in your chest and beneath your feet, then runs through the stone and down into the depths.

Far below, beyond your sight, a long, distorted sigh rises from the mine: a multitude of voices slowly softening into a single silence. The heat beneath your palm disappears. The mark becomes a faint white scar.

Lights bloom across the village. Doors open. People look up. The water in the well grows still.

At the edge of the square, Mira stands with both hands pressed over her mouth. Beside her, Barbara buries her face in her apron as Gregory and Paul come around the corner with Emery. Hartley runs across the square carrying a lantern, two guards following.

The bell still sings above your head. Its final note takes a long time to fade.

Thanksgiving

Player: Father, I think it's time for a service. Let us give thanks to the Lord together!

For a while, Brann says nothing. He stands beneath the bell with his hand against his chest, his eyes wet.

“You're right, my son,” he says at last. “For three weeks, this tower has had no voice, and for three weeks, we've had nothing to give thanks for.” He takes your arm. “Come down with me. Tonight, there is room for everyone in the Lord's house.”

Below, the chapel doors stand open and the village streams inside: women in shawls, half-dressed men, children clutching their mothers' skirts. Barbara sits with Paul in the third pew and refuses to let go of his hand. Dora embraces Gregory, who weeps quietly. Barlow has an arm around Emery. For once, the innkeeper has nothing to say. Mira stands at the end of a row, looking toward the bell tower as though afraid its voice might disappear again.

Brann steps before the altar. There is no speech, no sermon. He simply raises his hand.

“We thank You, Lord,” he says quietly, yet the whole chapel hears him. “For giving voice to the bell, for bringing our sons home, and for being with us in the darkness tonight.”

The villagers repeat the words softly, together. So do you. The white scar in your palm is warm, but it doesn't hurt. Bound to the pew, Corvin sits with his head lowered. When the shared prayer reaches “lead us not into temptation,” his lips move for a moment. You cannot tell whether he is joining in or merely taking a breath.

Hartley watches from the back, beside the guards at the door. When the prayer ends and the congregation looks around in silence, he approaches you.

“Erwin Greenthorn. They've told me what you did. Paul and the miners, the girl, the prisoner.” He glances at Corvin, then back at you. “I need every piece of evidence. Every document, witness, and object that can be brought against the mayor.”

Slow, measured footsteps approach from the square. Candle flames tremble in the draft as someone stops on the threshold: blue clothes, a silver clasp at the collar, and a perfectly composed smile.

“Good evening, my friends,” says Aldric Voss, mayor of Greystone. “I heard the bell. A beautiful sound, and a relief to us all.”

The mayor before the village

Player: I say nothing. I want to see how the villagers react.

Your silence spreads through the chapel. At first, no one moves. Then a quiet rustling begins among the pews as people turn toward one another, rather than toward Voss, waiting to see who will speak first.

Barlow slowly removes his arm from Emery's shoulders and takes two steps back from the mayor. His expression shows discomfort more than anger, the look of a debtor facing his creditor.

In a back pew, Black Jack mutters something only his neighbors can hear. An old woman nudges him sharply, and he falls silent, twisting his hat between his hands.

Beside Gregory, Dora grips her brother's shirt without once looking away from Voss.

Mira presses against the wall, but holds her head higher than before.

Father Brann remains on the altar steps. He neither approaches Voss nor moves aside for him. He simply stays where he is.

Voss feels the silence and, like a practiced politician, fills it first.

“My friends, it has been a difficult night, and we are all grateful for the bell.” His voice is warm, almost convincingly glad. “I see Master Corvin has been injured. We must call a physician at once. Who bound my adviser?”

He turns his head slowly toward you, not accusingly but deliberately. The crowd's gaze follows.

Then Paul rises from the third pew. His hair is still dusty, red marks circle his ankles, and his voice trembles, but every word is clear.

“Thorn locked me up. Rask brought the order. I had to make the lock for the mine gate, on the mayor's commission.” He swallows. “I was down there for three weeks.”

Barbara stands beside him. She says nothing, only lays her hand on her son's shoulder. At that gesture, someone in the congregation lets out a soft sigh.

Hartley steps forward from the doorway. His voice is level and matter-of-fact.

“Mr. Mayor. Where is Rask?”

Voss's smile remains unchanged. His fingers lace together behind his back.

“I don't know, Captain. Rask goes his own way, not at my expense.”

For a moment, everyone is silent. Then Hartley's gaze, and the chapel's whole attention with it, settles on you. You have the letter, and everyone can tell you are holding something back.

Player: Since we're all so conveniently gathered, Voss, please sit down. Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Erwin Greenthorn, an ordained paladin-priest of the order. I came here at the Lord's call, and I've had some interesting experiences in Greystone.

I briefly recount what happened, laying out the evidence one piece at a time.

“I believe your term of office ends here. I'll give the floor to the Captain. He can decide what happens to you next.”

Voss steps back with almost perfect courtesy, giving you room before the pews. He doesn't sit, but his smile remains.

You tell the story in order: the notice board, the lock commissioned from Barbara's workshop, Mira's account of the tower, Rask's letter and its reference to “the usual way,” the seal and the disc, and the voice the bell silenced.

The congregation is still. When Mira's name comes up, she speaks from beside the wall, her voice trembling but direct.

“I saw Rask cut the rope.”

Paul describes the lock. Gregory answers from his pew:

“Rask took us down there. He said it was on the mayor's orders.”

Dora stands beside him and places a palm-sized piece of dull black stone on the pew: her brother's stone, brought home from the mine.

Voss hears you out patiently, then shakes his head.

“It has been a distressing night, and these witnesses have suffered greatly.” His voice is warm, but the smile has left his eyes. “Mr. Greenthorn claims to be a paladin-priest, an envoy of the Holy See. Yet he is a traveler lodging with a smith, who told me of three nonexistent friends, and who dragged my adviser, Master Corvin, into the village in bonds. Your sealed letter of authority, sir. May we see it?”

You have no letter to produce. Hartley looks at Voss, then speaks dryly.

“His rank doesn't interest me. His actions do. And the evidence for those actions isn't a letter of authority. It's these people.”

He turns to Corvin, who leans against the pew with his hands bound.

“Master Corvin. You ran the mine. Tell us on whose orders.”

Corvin is silent for a long time. Then, with a tired, sardonic half-smile, he answers:

“I ran the mine. The mayor provided the money, and he commissioned the lock. That's all I'll say here. The rest can wait for the court.” He looks at you. “I wouldn't swear to the paladin story, but the rest is true.”

A low murmur passes through the chapel like a single wave. Voss clasps his hands behind his back and slowly looks around. His eyes flick toward the guards by the door. Both lean against the wall, neither looking at him.

“Captain,” he says at last, matter-of-factly. “This is slander, but I won't argue. I demand that the county court hear the case.”

Hartley nods.

“That is your right, Mr. Mayor. Until then, you'll remain in your house with two guards at the door. I'll issue a warrant for Rask. Master Corvin is coming with me to the cells.” He turns to you. “And you, Erwin, don't leave the village until we've taken the statements. And let me add: thank you.”

Voss leaves between two guards. On the threshold, he stops without turning around.

“The bell had a beautiful voice. I hope it rings for a long time.”

The villagers quietly disperse. Barbara presses a loaf of bread into your hands.

“The attic room is yours.”